Goryo
by SydnieWren
Summary: In the heat of his adolescence, strange desires blossom inside of Gin. GinxKira. Anal. Dark. Very surreal.
1. part I

**Hey guys! So this is actually very experimental for me. I usually don't do surrealism, though I do enjoy reading and writing it. So, I hope that it works out. Please do tell me what you think!**

**Warnings: Anal, surrealism.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

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"The quality of your work has been slipping, Gin."

Maybe it had or maybe it hadn't. Gin found a certain inclination to enter a trance-like frame of mind during his missions, and he very rarely took inventory of his actions afterward. If the mission report read 'completed', there was nothing else to think about.

He, unlike Aizen, was not a contemplative fellow.

Things happened. Time progressed. Gin identified very little difference between twenty years ago and thirty minutes from now.

He cocked his head to the side.

"Whad'ya mean, Aizen? Last mission pulled out alright."

Aizen sat up slightly, laying his pen decisively against his writing desk.

"No completed mission reports for two weeks, reporting late to missions, skipping meetings. You haven't been training, either. I would agree that the last mission turned out alright, Gin. You're capable of more than _alright_."

"S'pose I've been a little lazy lately."

"You've been plainly remiss." He paused. "What's distracting you, Gin?"

But from the precision of his glare and the decisively drawn lips, Gin suspected his captain had already settled on an answer to his question. He himself was slightly unsure, but he had a general idea of the speech that would follow - should Aizen continue to assume his bizarrely paternal attitude - and he could clearly understand its relative merits.

There had been dreams lately. He could hear it already: your body is changing, Gin. That much was true. Morning often found his sheets clinging to his body uncomfortably, stained with his seed. From time to time, his clothing brushed his flesh in such a way as to harden him, and other times it simply happened spontaneously, the result of a mere glance or stray thought.

"I guess it's probably what you think it is," he admitted at length, offering that wide and empty smile.

"And what do I think it is, Gin?" Aizen was clearly amused.

"Me gettin' older an' all."

"Growing up?"

"Body's changin' an' all that."

"You've begun to have...desires?"

Gin once more tipped his head to the side, pondering.

"I wouldn't exactly say that."

There had never been any regulating force to guide Gin's sexuality into a socially acceptable mold. He had grown up isolated in Rukongai, distant and solitary. He had spent his days picking through trash in the barren wastelands at the edge of the poorer districts, eating the pulp of the least rotten fruit. When he did come across others, they interacted through a veil of his own production, he spun illusions and freely told lies. There were those who went out of their way to avoid him and he thought better of them for it.

There were no magazines in his youth, no glossy feminine lips of any variety, no pert breasts with thick nipples. There was no playmate to innocently touch him. There was no naughty book hidden on a back shelf to inform him. Gin's sexuality had grown up organically inside him, and like most creatures that grow and change in the darkness, beneath stones and at the bottom of the sea, it was a strange and eerie thing.

"What is it that you fantasize about?" Aizen peered at him knowingly, suggesting with some implicit certainty that he had caught Gin in the midst of a fantasy or two.

"I ain't quite sure."

"Do go on."

"I don't think there's anything in particular, is all."

"When you touch yourself, Gin, what do you see in your mind's eye?" his tone was darker then, his pitch a shade lower.

"I jus' think about touchin' myself."

Aizen appraised him with a glance and nodded contemplatively, turning his head slightly to the side.

"I suspect that indicates you're aroused by men," he mused.

"Guess that might be it," Gin replied with a nonchalant shrug. It made as much sense as anything.

"Think on it," Aizen ordered, rising to stand, "and come here again tomorrow evening. Perhaps I can assist you."

The captain then departed on one of his nightly walks, and Gin fell upon the familiar path to his quarters. A lieutenant's lodging wasn't half-bad, especially by his standards; he had been and remained impressed with the space and amenities. Still he had failed to bring superfluous items into the place; he had no desire to decorate as some did, like birds stuffing candy wrappers into their nests. A mat to rest on and a pillow to lay his head on were all he needed; the blankets were a luxury.

Inside the room was silent. Pale clean moonlight slid in between the slats of the blinds, stretching in long patterns on the wood floor. His mat was tucked in a corner, the pillow and blankets folded on top of it. Silence lived there with him, though as of late his sweat and seed had tinged the air with a certain organic tinge, like an animal's den.

He breathed in for a moment, observed the still quiet, hands on his hips.

At length he approached the window, ran his fingers along one of the slats, peered out into the empty moon-washed street, bereft of movement and sound. Pulling the lone string, he closed them, and the light narrowed to slivers of wan whiteness. He moved against the far wall, where tendrils of illumination barely reached, slid downward, knees drawn up toward his chest.

First to come open was the haori, the belt falling away, and then he arched upward, sliding the hakama pants down over his hips. The floor was startlingly cold. A shiver coursed up his spine, culminating in a tingling that spread over his scalp. The sharp ridges of his shoulder blades settled against the wall as he reclined against it, spreading his legs open.

Aizen had told him to think on it, and given the appointment of the next night, he thought it prudent to obey.

Long white fingers slid beneath his limp sex, the tip of his index seeking out that sensitive spot just underneath the head. He found it and stroked it lightly; his flesh began to harden in his palm, blood rushing and pooling there, sensitizing the skin. After a few moments' stroking, complete with hushed panting and soft squirming, he let his head rest against the wall, and his breath became raspy in his narrow throat.

He needed to think of something, of someone. His brows knit together in concentration and he wracked his mind for any image, any finished, coherent idea of an ideal. If he were to expose this part of himself to anyone, he supposed, it would be best if they were a gentle person, a kind one. Pink lips would be a fine addition, all the better to suck between his own, to kiss until they were swollen, to wrap tenderly about his sex. Long legs to close around him; someone tall enough to fit nicely beneath him. Round hips, maybe, and sensitive nipples, an elegant long neck and -

And he was aroused by this ghost, this mirage. His cock was hard and dripping in his hand, clear fluid flowing down his sharp knuckles. It was nearly impossible to buck up into his hand for the relentless floor, but his body jerked and convulsed, and he let himself imagine an encounter with his illusion.

Pale, too. He wanted to see traces of blue and violet on the undersides of his wrists, wanted to fit his lips over sensitive pink skin and leave marks that would bloom in so many beautiful colors. Soft sweet eyes, and enough smooth, light hair to hold between his fingers.

And they would be kind, his perfect one, his little angel. They would be frightened of him, but they would not know how wise it was to be afraid. Yet they would be fascinated with him as well, one of those people possessed of an infatuation with the abyss. And though they would shrink back, and though they would quail, wince, cry, bite their lips and perhaps beg for mercy, they would be by all accounts willing, silently obsessed with him.

And they would love - _love _- to fuck. Naturally, they would deny it, play chaste, even fight it - but they would buck and squirm and beg in ecstasy, take it however it was given, lust desperately for that sweating, pounding, heavy breathing, sharp pain and explosive pleasure, the fulfillment of orgasm and completion.

Panting, Gin climaxed in his hand. His seed covered his fingers, fell onto the polished wood of the floor, and did not stop coming in fierce flows of pleasure for some time. Only when it was all finished did he realize how dry his mouth was, how hoarse he felt, how deep and constant he must have been moaning, and he at once thought it a prudent decision to remain quiet should he be asked to perform for Aizen.

It wasn't ever wise to encourage the man.

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**Thanks for the read!**


	2. part II

**Final chap, here! To clarify, I imagine Gin to be in his late teens here, or the shinigami equivalent of that. Please enjoy!**

**Warnings: anal, oral, Aizen.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

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He had once taken the same path to Aizen's home each time he visited him, following the thin stone path up from his own house near the marsh to the lane which connected at length to the main residential thoroughfare, a red brick road whose banks met the abodes of so many high-ranking and impressive shinigami. But since things had begun to _change, _he had found himself avoiding the open air, seeking the warm press of grass, earth and shadow when available.

On that night - one fragrant with budding jasmine and cherry blossoms and boughs and boughs of royal white flowers - there was earth and shadow and grass aplenty for him to tread through, and he did. He walked the perimeter of his small, lonely property, his narrow feet sinking into the mud when the broken pavement and gravel gave way to soft earth. A few yards further began something of a young bamboo forrest, which he wove his way through.

The stalks were high there, and still somewhat supple; he could feel, as he let his fingers cup the long branches he passed, the slight lively pulsing there, a distinctive yielding, a layer of softness that would have given under a fingernail had he paused to press. Thin threads of spiderweb draped over his face now and again; he drew them away, entranced by the amount of feeling such a very small thing could produce. With his long arms he moved between the stalks of bamboo, shouldering them aside when he came to the thick of the grove, wandering through their maze even as thin mud and water from the earlier storms swelled and flowed around his ankles.

It still sounded as though it were raining, though upon a thousand basho leaves. Crickets and cicadas were singing loudly, with a varied and rich chorus - though the noise of the rain was that of the fireflies, whose wings beat against one another and the bamboo like little specks of black marble, hard and quick and easy.

Somewhere he passed over a few nails, flat and old and broken.

Soon after, the stalks began to shrink and soften, grow greener and brighter, their leaves more slender and flexible, and the fireflies increased to a twinkling river of light, their tails never seeming to dim. Gin ducked his head as he passed through the hoard of them, their smooth wings brushing over his knuckles and fluttering through his hair. And when they abated, he found his feet on smooth, trimmed grass, planes and planes of it.

The Kuchiki property. He straightened and breathed in the air, with its cool controlled perfume, then looked about him to survey the land. It was common that captains and vice captains would use the territory as a short-cut; after all, the land was so vast that prohibiting others from using it would actually slow business - and the Kuchiki loved to appear level-headed and reasonable enough to make concessions for the sake of _business. _Once, their red wooden fence had cut through the thicket of bamboo, but the soft earth there had eaten the wood, softened it to pulp and drawn it back into the mud where it had gone on to become a fence of a more primordial kind.

Gin mostly found them comical, a little farce about superiority in the form of white scarves and headpieces an sprawling homes. He had gone through academy so much sooner than the Kuchiki boy, and presently found him rather pretty, and silly. It was clear that he was naive, but Gin proudly predicted bitterness for him, in the future.

Naivete, he found, was the midwife of bitterness.

But he liked to watch him, the young lord, and to his surprise he found, as he crept nearer to the manor, white flowers strewn across the ground.

And then it came to him - yes - the lord was due to be married to a pretty thing he had met in Rukongai, though what he was doing there was mysterious to Gin. He vaguely recalled that the rich had come periodically through the streets in his youth to distribute self-righteous charity for their own peace of mind; he hadn't ever taken any, though he had wanted to. He supposed that the girl who had agreed to marry the man must be very lucky to entertain only one client for the rest of her life, as opposed to the many women of Rukongai who entertained many a night - some of them noble.

Though not Byakuya. He was a pure one, sure of his mission. He walked upright. Gin had seen him. He'd never visited a prostitute a day in his life; in fact, the shinigami was almost certain that if he could come close enough to the corner window which he knew to belong to the man, he could perhaps provide an impromptu audience to the loss of his virginity, and perhaps hers as well.

Little by little, his shadow long and thin behind him, he moved closer, slinking, as a serpent slinks, through the sculpted grass, his narrow, nimble feet bringing him silently forward.

He made it to the window and dropped to a crouch there, just beneath the sill. It was a fine, warm evening, on which the white river of stars overhead could clearly be followed with the tip of a finger, and the quiet was dense.

A muffled murmur. He couldn't make out any words. He strained his ears, craned his long neck, leaned as close as he could without pressing his cheek to the window. The ever-present grin was, for once, genuine - he was genuinely amused.

She cried out suddenly. And then there was his deep voice, soothing. Still he sounded urgent. Gin thought his noble cock must have been pounding, and there he must have been, drenched in sweat, thoroughly disgusted with himself for wanting to fuck the girl so badly, small and tender as she was, dignified and controlled as he was.

_But we all succumb to those things, in the end. _

Her cries became rhythmic, and slowly lost their keening edge. He was panting like an animal. Though he could make out no silhouettes, he was almost certain that he was taking the girl beneath him, as any aristocrat would.

_Even the best and worst of us._

Byakuya came quickly, with a low, elegant groan; the girl did not, though perhaps she had tried to create the illusion. The next morning, Gin knew, she would be hurried out of the room so that the family could check the sheets for blood, and, finding smears and blotches, would be satisfied, and fold them as a keepsake.

No use for a used woman, after all. As he snuck away, bored and amused, Gin wondered: if a nice dose of Byakuya's semen made her a _lady, _what would it make him?

And he laughed, and sprinted, his head bowed slightly, shoulders trembling, mouth drying as his laughter became hysterical; for a moment he stopped, hands on his knees, to finish, sighing a few last times as he rose again to move off to Aizen's home.

Aizen lived in a pristine but spacious apartment in the finer part of what was generally considered the captain's district; aside from a few special exceptions, most lived in the area. For a time, he heard, Jyuushirou had even lived there, though in his illness he had retired to his ancestral estate to convalesce. Periodically Gin went there at night to listen to him cough, wondering just when he would die, and if he could take anything without being noticed.

Up the wooden stairs to his floor, down the open air porch, and then a soft knock. Immediately the door opened, revealing Aizen in his evening yukata, a dark red affair with a few simple geometric patterns near his chest. The belt was tied low and loose around his hips, leaving a bit of his chest exposed to the night air. Gin hadn't ever touched him and didn't intend on it, though still he wasn't particularly surprised at how sculpted the other man was, the very perfect picture of vigorous manhood.

"Come inside," Aizen invited. Gin grinned and acquiesced, hands tucked into his sleeves. His captain seemed a bit displeased that he was barefoot, though the dew on Byakuya's grass had done away with most of the mud that had accumulated on them in the bamboo grove.

"Evenin'."

"Good evening, Gin. Thank you for coming," Aizen replied cordially, closing the door behind him, "do undress."

He wasn't stunned and he felt no shame. As he untied his white belt he observed the room, which he had never paid particular attention to. Aizen's bedroom was off to some other corridor, but the man had moved his mat - or someone's - into the room, complete with a folded nest of blankets. In the corner, a candle burned low in a red lantern, casting the room in a rosy bronze glow, whose shadows were a strange, eerie burgundy. A few sticks of incense issued thick, fragrant smoke; it was heady, moreso than Gin was used to - he wasn't a particularly religious person and preferred the queer scents of nature anyhow, rot and the sharp purity of water and the sweet, mellow aroma of woodland mud.

Aizen's back was turned to him; the captain seemed to be assembling a pipe on his dresser, fitting the long metal stem with an ivory bowl and mouthpiece, complete with a filling of soft, pulpy leaves. A sudden flicker of light cast weird shadows, and then dimmed as quickly as it had arisen, leaving the material in Aizen's pipe glowing.

Gin was naked when he turned to face him. Aizen surveyed him overtly, from his deceptively narrow ankles to his sharp, broadening shoulders. The boy - young man - simply grinned, arms dangling at his sides, not a shade of blush nor hint of trembling about his hard, lean body. All of him was slender and firm, bones and unyielding, tight muscles, corded and ridged, joints still awkwardly swollen with youth.

"Excellent," Aizen murmured, as though to himself, pipe balanced between his fingers, "impressive, Gin. And you've yet to finish developing. Very well done."

"Thanks!"

Gin's mock enthusiasm hung in the air and soured. Aizen scowled momentarily, and then was blank again, staring off toward a darkened corridor at the far side of the room.

"Do join us," he called, and turned his head to suck in a deep breath of smoke.

Gin glanced over his shoulder. There was a shifting in the darkness, and then a form appeared as though assembled from a few stray particles of light. Long, slender legs, slightly rounded hips, shy pink sex, slender firm abdomen, and narrow shoulders, slim arms and - a mask.

The man, pale and thin, wore a round, white lacquer mask painted with expressionless dark-lined eyes and brilliant red lips drawn in a blank smile. Strokes of black formed the hair at the sides, and a bare pink rouged the round cheeks. Gin recognized it at as once as a Noh mask, the sort worn by actors at very elegant plays put on for very important people. From beneath it, he could see wisps of blond hair brushing those smooth shoulders, a world of color apart from the listless black of the painted hair.

"What's with the mask?" he asked curiously, head tilting to the side, grin momentarily displaced by a small frown.

"He won't be speaking to you, Gin," Aizen cut in, his voice then tinged with smoke, "or revealing his face. This will be a _private _encounter."

Gin thought on it for a moment and shrugged. It seemed to fit Aizen somehow, to put on a little performance like this for himself. As the vice captain watched the nameless, faceless man before him remain perfectly still, his captain settled down on a seat of pillows he had prepared, reclining back against the corner with his legs open, one knee bent toward him, one folded to the side, his elbow balanced on it. There was a languidness to his posture that owed itself to the smoke, and he had shed his glasses accordingly.

"Go on," he commanded smoothly.

The masked man alone seemed to know what he meant. Gin whipped around to look at Aizen, but turned back when a soft, gentle hand settled on his sex. He gave a slight start and fastened his long fingers on those thin shoulders, holding perhaps tighter than was necessary. The blonde did not so much as tremble as the other fit his lips against the cold lacquer lips of the mask, a strange gesture that at once had his cock hardening between them.

Gin was immediately stiff as well, his pale sex swollen and sensitive, heralded by a distinct quickening of his breath. His sharp adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, once, twice, looking for his bearings. He did not know what to do. And in his primal shamelessness, he almost asked - but then the other man was lowering himself to his knees, trailing his fingertips down from Gin's dusky nipples to his sharp hips.

And then there were lips on the dripping head of his cock. Gin groaned - unsure of himself - tipped his head back and thrust hard; the blond adjusted quickly, without so much as a cough. He sucked eagerly, taking more and more between his lips, into the soaking warmth of his mouth. The tip of his nimble pink tongue teased beneath the head of Gin's cock, the slit, lapped at his precum and massaged every available inch of pounding hard flesh.

Gin was flushed and panting.

"Finish if you'd like, Gin," Aizen murmured, though it sounded warped, as through water, and worlds away.

"No," Gin croaked, gritting his teeth, "I wanna - fuck."

Aizen chuckled, and the blond sat back on his heels, the white mask tilted up at Gin.

"Let him take you from behind," Aizen suggested from his corner vantage point.

The man in the mask moved languidly into that position, his smooth thighs parted, steady back still and braced. His cock dripped beneath him, the tip perfectly red and flushed, glistening.

Gin dropped to his knees, aware of Aizen's gaze on him. His hands came to rest unsteadily on the other's hips, thumbs kneading light circles into that perfectly supple skin. Each knot of the blond's spine was slightly revealed, and his hips swelled somewhat from his impossibly narrow waist. He must have been a ghost, Gin thought, of some twisted aristocrat, who hadn't taken enough for his satisfaction in his lifetime.

Perfect.

The tip of his cock came to rest against the sweet pink entrance offered to him before he paused, straining his muscles to keep from thrusting forward. He was sure he could hear them pop and struggle with the effort.

"Shouldn't I do somethin'?"

"He's ready for you, Gin," Aizen assured him, smirking, "_Ikorose._"

Gin thrust sharply inside, jerking the other back onto his cock as fiercely as he pushed it inside. At once he craned his neck, crying out; it was tighter than he had imagined, hotter, pulsing around him, pulling him deeper and deeper until he was fully sheathed in the other. His knuckles turned white with their intense grip on those narrow hips, and his grin faltered, lips parting as sweat broke out over his shoulders and forehead.

There wasn't anymore direction. Gin fucked him, hard. It was something without reason and perhaps beyond passion, a hot and primal thing that burned and seared, built up inside of him and strained, tightened every muscle in his lean, corded body. His abdomen ached with the force of his thrusts and he knew that he would rub his knees raw that way, though he only pulled the blond closer, fucked him harder, deeper, moaning and gasping erratically as he neared his orgasm.

He could feel the masked man shiver and twist, though he tried desperately to still himself, having long since dropped to his elbows and spread his thighs as far apart as was possible, to give Gin all the access he needed to his wanting passage. A choked groan passed his tightly pressed lips and then - Gin felt his body jerk and then tremble, pulsing tightly around his cock as the other spilled his seed onto the floor.

Gin clenched his jaw as he felt his own release beginning. He was almost bent over the other, one hand then clutching his shoulder, thrusting in as quickly and deeply as he could. Sweat dripped onto the quivering blond's back, as he finished violently, coming with a broken, harsh moan. Both his palms hit the floor on either side of the masked man's shoulders then, as he panted to regain his senses in the wake of the orgasm that still had him bucking involuntarily into the blond's passage.

"Very well done," Aizen commended him with that strange paternal tone, "I do hope this helps with your recent _problems. _You know, the quality of your work has been slipping, Gin."

Gin realized he hadn't been listening to his captain at all as they sat in his office; he had been summoned, after all, to discuss something.

"What's that?"

"I said, _the quality of your work has been slipping,_" Aizen replied sternly, "I do believe I'm losing you, Gin, to - daydreams."

"Aw, how d'ya figure?"

Aizen stared pointedly at the other, and then glanced down with as much propriety as possible at his lap. Gin grinned widely and cocked his head to the side.

"You've been elected for promotion," the captain went on, "and I would hate to have to rescind your recommendation."

"Oh, yessir, I understand," Gin replied with a faux-eagerness.

"You need to finish the paperwork, Gin, and nominate a vice-captain."

"Any suggestions?"

"Actually -" Aizen paused, "yes. A member of the fourth squad. A very _peculiar _young man. I expect you two might get along well."

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**Thanks for the read; please review! **


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